Sharing The Limelight
by IJustWantASoulMate
Summary: Curie Mast, an English girl in an English school, formerly known as the science teacher's pet. But one day in science class a mysterious boy enters, the new kid, Sherlock Holmes. Now that someone else has caught her science teacher's attention, how will Curie stay in her limelight? The two of them must somehow share their limelight together, something neither of them is used to.
1. Chapter 1: Why Does It Matter?

A/N: hope you enjoy this first chapter!

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"Calcium oxide and carbon dioxide!" I exploded, thankful that Mr. Liguori had finally given in and picked me to answer the question. What question you ask? The question: What products do you get when you burn calcium carbonate. Sorry, limestone. I forget that some people don't know the scientific phrases for certain substances, just the generic terms usually.

"Correct," said Mr. Liguori, a word that he had become used to saying in my presence. "Now, what about if I mixed some calcium oxide with a few drops of water? Anyone?"  
Seeming almost desperate, he turned to a student and raised his hands together like a prayer. "Mr Howell, do you know the answer?"

Daniel shrugged his shoulders, indifferent. "No Sir, sorry Sir."

The teacher turned to Carrie. "Miss Fletcher?" she shook her golden curls violently.

Sighing, Mr. Liguori turned to me and smiled. "Go on then Curie, what's the answer?"

My cheeks brightened at the notion that I was the only student he'd called by their first name. "You would get the product calcium hydroxide, Ca(OH)2, or more commonly known as slaked lime." Really eager to impress, I decided to milk the situation for all it was worth. "Not to be confused with limewater, which is a more diluted form of calcium hydroxide."

I heard a titter somewhere in the back; "Show off." As I was about to object, the classroom door opened abruptly.

A soft light scattered onto the floor through the open doorway, shining against the angelic figure standing there.  
He was tall, about 5"9', with an arrogant gaze and a mop of luscious, curly brown hair. His skin was pale, like porcelain, and his eyes were the colour of a clear blue sky. Or were they green? They seemed to change colour with every step he took.

"Hi, I'm Sherlock Holmes, I was told to come here?" he watched our faces for our reactions, which when I looked around, were mainly shocked and slightly confused.  
"Hello? I'm the new kid?"

For some reason, when he said that, he made me feel sort of...stupid. Near to no-one had that effect on me.

"Well then Sherlock," said Mr. Liguori, not at all phased, "Take a seat wherever you like."

"Your answer holds no validity, Sir," Sherlock said bluntly, "There is only one spare seat."

The whole class gasped. Nobody spoke like that to a teacher, especially to one as nice as Mr. Liguori.

"Quite a valid point there Mr Holmes," the teacher said, slightly stunned. "Well spotted."

Sherlock just shrugged. "I merely observed, though this really wasn't at all hard to deduct." So without another word, Sherlock strode over to the only empty seat and sat on it.

Next to me.

_Who was this boy? Why had Mr. Liguori taken such a shine to him? I'm his star pupil! _I don't know why, but I suddenly felt angry at this new boy, Sherlock Holmes. I was the know - it - all, the teacher's pet, the goody goody two shoes; he was stealing my limelight! My limelight on the limestone cycle!

As if Sir had read my mind, a little light bulb seemed to go off in his head as he said: "Oh! Quick history lesson, since we're on the topic of limestone, who knows the origin of the phrase 'to be in the limelight'?"

My hand shot up automatically, like it had a life of its own. But, crap, Sherlock had his hand up too. _Pick me Sir, pick me!_

Oh, was I grateful when Mr Liguori pointed to me. "Curie Mast?"

"The origin of the phrase 'to be in the limelight', derives from the usage of burning calcium oxide in theatres to create lighting for the stage!"

My whole upper body had been aching from holding back my answer for so long. I gave Sherlock a meaningful glare of triumph, which he pretended didn't bother him, but I knew that it did. _It would've bothered me._

"Excellent!" Shouted Mr Liguori, scribbling this new information onto the whiteboard.

"Domestic." I heard someone whisper in my ear.

I looked around, startled. "What?"

Sherlock shuffled his seat closer to mine, saying it again. "Mr Liguori and his girlfriend Sam had a domestic last night; a girlfriend who loves him enough to have three kisses engraved in his jewellery, but not so much that she wouldn't object to him sleeping on the sofa."

_Why was this boy talking to me? As handsome as he may be. _"What? How can you tell?"

"The way he keeps on rubbing his neck; he slept on the sofa last night. His body language is jerky, and notice that he's constantly looking at the clock? Hoping to be somewhere else then."  
He made a little hand gesture, waving two fingers towards the teacher. "Do you see that he looks at his mobile every other second, and when he does so, he touches his watch? That means whoever gave him that watch is the same person he's hoping will call. Now, when he looks at the watch, his eyes dilate; so, girlfriend."  
His eyes narrowed at the teacher's jewellery, which he pointed at again. "Engraved on the rim, '_love Sam xxx'. _So Sam is his girlfriend, and it's serious, that model is at least two years old, and the fact that she put three kisses.  
So, in conclusion: slept on the sofa, jerky body language, dilated eyes, girlfriend, sentiment and the engraving on his watch...he had a fight with his lover last night."

I stared at him, shaken. "Ummm...why _girlfriend_? Why not _Wife_?"

"Look at his hands!" Sherlock hissed. "No ring, duh!"

I felt that my features creased. "Why...why does it matter?"

As if I'd slapped him right in the face, he couldn't have looked more shocked. His face became blank, and he didn't really seem to know how to react. Maybe he'd never been put in this kind of position before.

Twitching. The corners of his mouth were twitching, into something that might've resembled...a smile?

"No...no-one has ever asked me that," he said, looking right into my eyes, "no one." his throat made a deep rumbling sound that seemed to be a chuckle. "'Looks like I've found someone moderately clever out of this mess of stupid idiots."

_Was I supposed to be flattered? _"Ummm...thank you?"

"You should be thankful; I rarely say things like that about anybody."

_What a weird kid. _I almost wanted to like him, but...no, I couldn't. If I started having feelings for him, I'll risk the chance of him stealing my place as the class nerd.  
I wasn't going to let him steal my limelight that easily, no way, but...maybe we could find a way to share it?

I wasn't going to even entertain the possibility of that idea.

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A/N: Thankyou for reading, and I would really appreciate it if you commented and voted! Criticism is also welcome :3

Did you get the YouTuber references ;D?

Laterz!


	2. Chapter 2: Hats Off To Tchaikovsky

A/N: I tried really hard on this one, hope you like it!

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_That Sherlock kid sure was weird, _I thought, walking across a familiar pavement that lead from school to my house. It was relatively quiet, with only the sweet September breeze to cut through the calm silence.

The oddest part was that that boy'd started school at the very last lesson, just before school was over_. Why did he do that? Surely he would know to do the normal thing and arrive just before school starts. Or maybe he just didn't care._

Why was I even thinking about him, about Sherlock? I'm surprised I've even managed to remember his name.

Walking closer to home, I noticed the 'for sale' sign in our now long gone neighbours' garden had been taken down from the drive, and had been replaced with a moving van. _How did I not notice that this morning? _I am such a daydreamer; seriously, my brain is always too preoccupied with thinking that I never notice what's going on in the outside world.

"Mummy, Daddy, I'm home!" I yell through the half opened door, trying to remove my house key from the lock.

I heard my mum's and dad's voices, and a few others that weren't theirs. "Curie, love, come into the sitting room, I want you to meet our new neighbours!"

I sighed, not really in the mood for company. "Hmmm, okay, sure..."

Once I entered the room, I saw a sight that I was not prepared for:  
In the sitting room was my mum, dad, my dog and three other people. A middle aged couple sat on the sofa with my parents, smiley and youthful looking for how old I estimated them to be (I'd say around in their late thirties to early forties).

And there sat on the opposite armchair...was a boy.  
About nineteen, with so-so looks and an aura of royalty. He sat regally in the chair, sipping at a cup of tea with his little finger pointed up towards the ceiling. His family didn't seem excessively posh, so he must've trained himself to be...how would I put it; elegant.

As I mentioned before, he was only mildly attractive, but personally, I don't put much thought into other people's looks, since I don't believe it matters. All I knew was, there was a boy, in my house, in the same room as me! This never happens to people like me, y'know...the geeks, the nerds, the swots.

"Uh, hi," I said addressing them all, blushing a little with embarrassment.

"Hello dear!" Said the cheery woman. "I'm your new neighbour Violet, and this is my husband Siger; but you can call us Mr and Mrs Holmes if you'd like."

The boy then stood up, setting down his tea. "And I'm Mycroft Holmes, the elder of my parents' two sons," he said, bowing before me, making me blush a little.

Wait..._Holmes...had I heard that name before? It felt a little familiar for some reason._

"Where is your younger brother?"

"Oh, Dear, he's upstairs." Said Mrs Holmes.

"Oh." I stood there for a moment, not sure what to say. "I'll just –"

But then I heard it. Up in my room, floating down the stairs and into the sitting room, where the sweet, tragic notes of Tchaikovsky's 'Swan Lake Ballet suite, Op.20 Finale' on violin.  
Those notes, plucking at the strings of my delicate heart, wrapped me in an agonising silence that made me want to cry, alone, under the covers of my double bed with just my teddy bear to soothe me.

"I'm sorry, I need to go." I tore away from them, making my way to the stairs.

Mrs Holmes looked surprised. "Are you alright –"

"I'm sorry Mrs Holmes, but I need to see this." And so I bolted up the stairs and ran towards my room.

As I pushed the door open, the piece had reached its climax. Loud and strong, soulful and utterly heartbreaking. The player stood with their back to me, tall and lean, dressed in a white shirt and polished leather shoes, their tight black curls their most prominent feature.

By the end of the piece, I was in tears, with a wet face and flushed cheeks. How I would've loved to hear them play some more.

"Bach, Mozart or Tchaikovsky?"

I jumped, surprised that he'd noticed my arrival. "Tch-Tchaikovsky! He's my favourite. And that's my favourite piece of his."

"I know," still with his back to me, he jerked his bow to a sheet of paper on my bed, "The sheet music that I played from here is very crumpled, with lots of little rips and stains, obviously from when you've held it an innumerable amount of times. Good choice for a favourite music piece."

I gasped as he turned to face me. "Hey, it's you! Sher-"

"Sherlock Holmes." He set himself on my bed and sighed in a somewhat irritated manner. "Met the family yet? No, don't answer that, I already know: I heard you talking downstairs."

"Right." I couldn't think of what to say. I'd never been in this kind of situation before, talking to a boy about...what were we talking about? I wasn't quite sure.

"Ummm...so, what d'you think to school, not that you've experienced much of it." _Oh, God, why am I so stupid?_

He didn't seem interested, but he appeased me by complying with the topic of conversation. "It was alright, seeing as it was science."

I asked the question that'd been bugging me all day: "Why did you decide to kick your first day of year ten off by not only starting a month late, but also by coming in just as school was ending?"

That 'almost smile' that I saw earlier in science reappeared. "Why not? I was busy with a case, anyhow."

"A case? What, like, detective work?"

His 'maybe smile' grew a little wider. "Yes. Exactly like detective work. Does it interest you at all, detective work, deducting, observing human habits?"

"Maybe it could do, if someone was to influence me."

Sherlock smiled. "And that someone might just be named Sherlock Holmes."

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A/N: Thanks for being so patient :3 sorry this was short, but the next one will be longer, promise! xx


	3. Chapter 3: The Guilty Pilot: Part 1

A/N: Chapter 3! This one took ages D:

Hope you enjoy reading this, NaisieMae out! *falls out of frame*

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It'd been a week since Sherlock Holmes had burst through the doors of Sc1. The days after had been a jumble of our rivalry in science, and a weird companionship that we applied to the rest of our daily lives. We'd sit together in every lesson, always in pairs, even outside of the classroom.

"Curie," He'd said yesterday lunchtime, sitting down to accompany me when I ate my salad, never bringing any food for himself. I must ask him about that sometime; if he's purposely starving himself, I'll make sure to take action.

I'd forked up a quartered cucumber slice and had eaten it, not really tasting its flavour. "Yeah Sherlock?"

"How would you feel about becoming my colleague? So, for instance, if I needed someone to accompany me on a case, you'd be the person I would call. What do you think about that?" his eyes had followed my fork as it'd entered my lips to deposit some lettuce leaf. "Although, you don't really have a say in this, so your opinion would be irrelevant."

There wasn't much point in objecting, as I'd seen it. "Alright then, fair do's. So when am I expected to accompany you to this 'case'?"

"Tomorrow, after school, my house."

"Oh, but I'm busy that day- "

"Not anymore, you're not." His eyes had held mine, drawing out a long silence filled with words that his turquoise orbs had spoken to my deep ultramarines. "After school, my house, tomorrow. As I said before, any objections that you make will be ignored."

_Where exactly did he get such a massive ego? _If he had a middle name, it would definitely be arrogance. This had suddenly sparked an interest in my mind; what was Sherlock's full name?

"What's your full name, Sherlock?"

For a few seconds he'd let his usually blank mask slip, appearing slightly caught off guard. But, he'd quickly replaced this expression with a bland stare. "William Sherlock Holmes Scott."

In response, I'd found myself laughing, though I'd tried to contain it.

His brows had furrowed, the confusion evident on his face. "What? What's so funny about that? It's just a name."

"A pretty weird name if you ask me!" I'd sputtered, desperately trying to stop my hysteria.

Usually in this situation, I would imagine that the person would've be offended by my rudeness, but it hadn't seemed to have much of an effect on Sherlock.  
"Whatever. You better come home with me tomorrow; and it won't be easy to get out of it, since we're neighbours."

And it hadn't been easy, which is why I was here now, in Sherlock's room waiting for him to finish changing.

He'd been lenient to the extent that he'd let me get changed in my own house, but he'd insisted on waiting outside my door in case I decided to make a run for it. I personally think that waiting outside someone's door whilst they get dressed is a little perverted, but I get the feeling that perving on fourteen year old girls wasn't one of Sherlock's motives.

I was blushing now, sitting cross-legged on his bed with my face to the wall, listening to the rustling of clothes on skin. "Can I turn around yet?"

"Not yet," he huffed, making irritated groaning noises, "I haven't got my shirt on yet."

Ignoring him, I dared to peek at him through the corner of my eye. He stood, tall and pale, speckled with the odd freckle on his flesh. Bare chested, with only some dark skinny jeans to conceal his body, he looked gorgeous:  
His body was quite manly, with a wide torso, squared shoulders and a narrow waist. Mussed, his hair crowned him like a handsome prince, awaiting to save me from this world.  
He certainly moved in a princely fashion; not a single roll of fat on his stomach, as he bent down to pick up a white tee and a flannel shirt with _unusual_ grace.

I have to admit, shamefully, the whole time I stared, I barely took my eyes off his stomach; a beautiful swell of muscle behind snowy white flesh. _Christ, forget sixpack, he had more of an eightpack!_

"Verdict?"

_Shit, shit! He'd seen me looking. _"What?"

He narrowed his eyes, looking slightly annoyed with my evasiveness. "Oh come on, you were staring so hard your eyes were hazing over."

_What should I say? _"Umm, well I- your body, it's nice...I guess." My face started to burn, hotter than a fire at its peak. "I was just thinking, you don't really seem like the sporty type, so why do you have such a...uh, _chiselled _exterior?"

The corners of his mouth twitched up slightly. "Good genetics, and I tend to do a lot of running when I'm on a case."

"Oh," then, "Why are you wearing a flannel shirt? And jeans? That doesn't seem like you either."

One of his long fingered hands ran through his messy curls. "No, it isn't, I'm very much a pressed shirt, scarf and trench coat kind of man; but I'm in a bored mood today, so why not wear boring clothes to match?"

"I guess so."

He sat down next to me, running his eyes down my body, making me blush. "I'd say you on the other hand, are very much in your usual attire today, correct?"

I found myself feeling impressed, which was unusual for me. "Yeah, I think they call my style 'geek casual'?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I wouldn't know, and if I ever did, which I highly doubt, I've probably deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

A finger pressed against his forehead. "This is my brain, and if I want to make the most of it, I should only store the information that's actually useful, right? So many people fill their heads with junk, like who broke up with who at school, or which celebrity is the most outrageous, or which character they like the most from 'Doctor Who'."

"Hey!" I poked him in the chest, trying to conceal my offense, "I like Doctor Who, it's so angsty!"

A sigh escaped his lips. "Well, you would like that kind of thing, wouldn't you?"

I actually felt a little hurt. So what if I like Doctor Who? So what if I like to read? So what if I enjoy science lessons? So what if I wear stupid owl glasses because I'm incredibly short-sited or if I get a thrill from watching the new Star Trek movie? I'm a nerd, a geek; it's what I know how to do best.

But I didn't say any of this. I just said: "Well, what did you expect? I'm your typical nerd, a girl without a social life who spends her free time writing science-fiction, listening to classical music; nothing else."  
I flopped down onto his bed, feeling unhappy and dissatisfied with how the conversation went. _Sometimes I just wish people would give the whole nerd thing a rest.  
_"Just tell me about the case, Sherlock."

For some reason he didn't respond, but just sat there quietly, with his hands together resting on his chin.

I got up, shuffling closer to him. "Hey, Sherlock? You okay?" he still didn't respond, staring off into the distance. "Sherlock!"

Suddenly he jumped in his spot, like he'd just woken from a coma. "Hmm?"

"What were you doing, going all weird on me like that? It's unordinary."

"And so is this case, which is exactly why I chose to take it on."

My brows rose slightly. "And what _is _this case?"

He swivelled in his spot, his eyes piercing mine with a strange intensity. "A week ago, an aeroplane flying from New York to London crashed into the Atlantic Ocean, and nobody knows why."

A shiver ran down my spine. "There wasn't any footage?"

"Of course not, the plane was destroyed!"

"Sorry," I said, feeling stupid. "Were there any survivours?"

"Six, but none of them have any recollection of seeing anything suspicious."

"What about the pilot and the co-pilot?"

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "They survived too, but they're not important."

I raised my eyebrows higher, "Well surely they do, they _were _the ones flying the plane."

"Yes, but- " his eyes flickered with realisation. "Yes...they _were _the ones flying the plane_, weren't_ they?" with a new found energy, Sherlock bounced off the bed, running to his wardrobe and ripping off his clothes.

"Sherlock! What are you- "

"I'm changing out of my boring clothes Curie, 'cause I'm not bored anymore, new state of mind and all; this calls for a pressed shirt, a scarf and a trench coat!"

_Jesus Christ! _I turned away from his nearly bare body, panicked. "At least give me some kind of warning Sherlock, I've only known you for a week!"

"Never mind your embarrassment," he said, racing to my side in just his trousers, "We have ourselves a case to solve! Get your coat on, now!"

_God, I wish I'd never befriended this crazy boy!_

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I never thought I'd actually be inside an actual police station. I certainly hope I don't have to come here often, because it looks really scary: all dark walls and intimidating stares from biggish men who look like they could knock you out with one blow.

"Sherlock," I said, nervously scuffing my feet on the floor, "What are we doing here?"

"We're here to solve this case, stupid."

I didn't like his tone. "Don't call me stupid."

"Oh don't be like that, practically everybody is." He turned to face me, his lips twitching. "But you're not as stupid as most...just a bit shy."  
He waltzed in to the station, tugging me in with him. "Someone get me on the phone with Sergeant Lestrade from Scotland Yard."  
I expected them to kick us out, but instead they followed his orders. One of the beefier men dialled a number and then handed the telephone to Sherlock.  
"Listen, Albert, it's Sherlock; I think I've got something for you on that Atlantic plane case. I think I've deducted who caused the crash...but you need to come over here, now, 'cause it'll be harder to tell you over the phone. I don't care if you bring your son or not, just get here!"

My eyes were wide as he put the phone down. "Is that how you usually speak to policemen and detectives from Scotland Yard?"

He smirked a little. "That's how I talk to everyone, or haven't you noticed?"

"No, I've noticed. So his son? Who is he?"

"Nobody important," Sherlock said, "Mr Lestrade's son Greg is going to work for Scotland Yard someday, but before he can apply he needs some experience, so his father's given him an apprenticeship there."

"Oh, cool. Is he any good?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Hardly."

Jeez, If Sherlock thinks a detective's son is rubbish at crime solving, what chance does he think I have?

If only I'd just ignored him on that first day.

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A/N: Chapter 4 is on it's way!

Love you all, xx


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